Fitzgerald: Jerry Remy’s ready for comeback

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(Watertown, MA, 02/13/17) Jerry Remy, New England Sports Network color analyst on Red Sox television broadcasts, discusses his treatment of lung cancer as well as bouts of depression during a news conference at NESN's studios in Watertown on Monday, February 13, 2017. Staff photo by Christopher Evans

Red Sox broadcaster Jerry Remy. Staff file photo by Christopher Evans

ON THE LOOKOUT: Jerry Remy watches Tuesday’s game from the booth. Remy was critical of the Yankees using a translator for starter Masahiro Tanaka.

He made it sound casual, as if it were just a conversational tidbit for acquaintances in the media, but Jerry Remy’s offhand assurance to them yesterday that he would be back in the NESN booth this season was a monumental “feel good” moment for anyone who loves the Red Sox and understands their broadcasts are the background music of summer around here.

Jerry was a Somerset kid who caught lightning in a bottle, spending a decade playing second base in the bigs, including a seven-year hitch with the hometown team, after which he took a seat behind a microphone.

“All of a sudden, when you weren’t looking, you became a legend,” he was told yesterday. “How does that happen?”

Remy laughed. “I don’t know. Someone has to explain it to me, too.”

Actually, the explanation is simple. He’s one of our own, meaning he fully understands the passions and nuances of Red Sox baseball and the emotional grip it has had on fans throughout this neck of the woods for as long as anyone can remember.

In short, Jerry gets it. For Red Sox zealots, which is redundant, watching a game while listening to him is comfortable, and it’s been that way for a long, long time.

So when cancer forced him to the sidelines, it was a jolt to the region.

Last August, prior to a game against the Yankees, he was honored on his 30th anniversary as a voice of the Sox, seven weeks after undergoing lung surgery and two days before beginning chemotherapy.

It was his fifth bout with cancer.

His short speech was firm and absolute: “I’ll be back for Opening Day!”

Yesterday he reaffirmed that.

But Jerry’s been ambushed by more than cancer. He’s also waged a mighty war with depression, a disease that does not receive a lot of understanding or attention in the macho world of sports.

A broken bone? That’s easy to understand.

A broken spirit? That’s something else.

To his everlasting credit, Jerry’s put a face on depression, using his own struggles to let the world know it’s not about shame or weakness, nor is it cause for embarrassment.

It is, however, brutal.

“As soon as you wake up you want to go back to sleep,” he explained. “And you’re almost afraid to go to bed at night because you don’t want to wake up feeling the same way in the morning. Nothing interests you. You don’t want to do anything. You don’t want to leave the house or drive the car; all you want to do is nothing!

“It’s horrible. You seem to be healthy yet you’re battling something you can’t explain to anyone else, unless they’ve been through it, too. You just don’t feel you have any control over your life.”

That’s been Jerry’s long, calamitous journey.

“But I’m OK now,” he said. “I feel good and being around the ballpark feels awfully good, too. I’m working on regaining some stamina.”

This guy has always been a favorite here, but never more than now because of the way he’s faced his adversities. Courageous? Yes. The word certainly fits. Courage, someone once noted, isn’t the absence of fear; it’s the conquest of it.

“But I haven’t done it alone,” he said. “My wife, Phoebe, is not only my best friend, but she is also the absolute strongest person I’ve ever known.

“The way I look at it, I’m a lucky guy. The doctors have done their jobs, so all we have to do now is hope everything else stays away.”